A Matter of Honor

“No one is going to give me a second look, even if I were to empty the till in front of them,” he told her.

“That is the idea, n’est-ce pas?” Jeanne said, grinning.

“Now, are you sure you know exactly what you have to do?” said Adam.

“I know well.” Jeanne checked herself once more in the long hall mirror. “We’ave rehearse like military exercise four times already.”

“Good,” said Adam. “You sound as if you’re ready to face the enemy. So let’s begin with what in the army they call ‘advance to contact.’”

Jeanne took out a plastic bag from a drawer in the kitchen. The single word “Céline” was printed across it. She handed it over to Adam. He folded the bag in four, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket before walking into the corridor. She locked the flat door behind them, and they walked down the stairs together and out on to the pavement.

Adam hailed a taxi and Jeanne told the driver, “Tuileries garden.” Once they had arrived, Adam paid the fare and joined Jeanne on the pavement.

“Bonne chance,” said Adam as he remained on the corner, allowing Jeanne to walk twenty yards ahead of him. Although he still felt unsteady, he was able to keep up at her pace. The sun beat down on his face as he watched her walk in and out of the ornate flower beds. Her pink leather skirt and tight white sweater made almost every man she passed turn and take a second look. Some even stopped in their tracks and continued watching until she was out of sight.

The comments she could hear and Adam couldn’t, twenty yards behind, ranged from “Je payerais n’importe quoi,” which she reluctantly had to pass up, to just plain “Putain, which Adam had told her to ignore. Her part had to be acted out, and for two hundred francs she would just have to suffer the odd insult.

Jeanne reached the Right Bank of the Seine, and she did not look back; she had been instructed not to turn around in any circumstances. Keep going forward, Adam had told her. He was still twenty yards behind her when she reached the quai des Tuileries. She waited for the lights to turn green before she crossed the wide road, keeping in the center of a throng of people.

At the end of the quai she turned sharp right, and for the first time could see the Louvre straight in front of her. She had been too embarrassed to admit to him that she had never been inside the building before.

Jeanne climbed the steps to the entrance hall. By the time she had reached the swinging doors, Adam was approaching the bottom step. She continued on up the marble staircase with Adam still following discreetly behind.

When Jeanne reached the top of the stairs she passed the statue of the Winged Victory of Samothrace. She proceeded into the first of the large crowded rooms and began counting to herself, noting as she passed through each gallery that there was at least one attendant on duty in each, usually standing around aimlessly near one of the exits. A group of schoolchildren were studying The Last Supper by Giovanni, but Jeanne ignored the masterpiece and marched straight on. After passing six attendants she arrived in the room Adam had described to her so vividly. She strode purposefully into the center and paused for a few seconds. Some of the men began to lose interest in the paintings. Satisfied by the impact she was causing, she flounced over to the guard, who straightened up his jacket and smiled at her.

“Dans quelle direction se trouve de la peinture du seizième siècle?” Jeanne asked innocently. The guard turned to point in the direction of the relevant room. The moment he turned back, Jeanne slapped him hard across the face and shouted at him at the top of her voice: “Quelle horreur! Pour qui est-ce que vous me prenez?”

Only one person in the icon room didn’t stop to gaze at the spectacle. “Je vais parler à la direction,” she screamed, and flounced off toward the main exit. The entire charade was over in less than thirty seconds. The bemused guard remained transfixed to the spot, staring after his assailant in bewilderment.

Jeanne continued on through three centuries more quickly than H. G. Wells. She took a left turn into the sixteenth-century room as instructed, and then another left brought her back into the long corridor. A few moments later, she joined Adam at the top of the

marble staircase leading down to the front entrance.

As they walked back down the steps together, Adam handed her the Céline bag and was about to part again, when two attendants waiting on the bottom step threw out their arms, indicating they should halt.

“Do you wish a run for it?” she whispered.

“Certainly not,” said Adam very firmly. “Just don’t say anything.”

“Madame, excusez moi, mais je dois fouiller dans votre sac.”

“Allez-y pour tout ce que vous y trouvez,” said Jeanne.

“Certainly you can search her bag,” said Adam, returning to her side before Jeanne could say anything more. “It’s an icon, quite a good one, I think. I purchased it in a shop near the Champs Elysées only this morning.”

“Vous me permettez, monsieur?” the senior attendant asked suspiciously.

“Why not?” said Adam. He removed the Czar’s icon from the bag and handed it over to the attendant, who seemed surprised by the way things were turning out. Two more attendants rushed over and stood on each side of Adam.

The senior attendant asked in broken English if Adam would mind if one of the gallery’s experts were to look at the painting.

“Only too delighted,” said Adam. “It would be fascinating to have a second opinion.”

The senior attendant was beginning to look unsure of himself. “Je dois vous demander de me suivre,” he suggested in a tone that was suddenly less hostile. He ushered them quickly through to a little room at the side of the gallery. The attendant put the Czar’s icon in the middle of a table that dominated the room. Adam sat down and Jeanne, still bemused, took the seat beside him.

“I’ll only be a moment, sir.” The senior attendant almost ran out while the two other attendants remained stationed near the door. Adam still did not attempt to speak to Jeanne although he could see that she was becoming more and more apprehensive. He shot her a little smile as they sat waiting.

When the door eventually opened, an elderly man with a scholarly face preceded the senior attendant.